Genesis
by A Benediction
Summary: The simple act of Sherlock, expounding to the recently emboldened Molly upon the circumstances in which he suppresses and indulges appetite, sparks a chain reaction. John steps boldly - or is it blindly? - into the fallout.  SH/JW, SH/MH.
1. Chapter 1: Birthday Blues

**Chapter 1**

**Birthday Blues **

"Evening, Molly," mumbled Sherlock, as the young pathologist entered the lab. Long experience meant she didn't bother to enquire how he had known it was her without looking up from the microscope, but she was surprised when he asked "Why so down?" - _as_ he raised his eyes to look at her.

"All right," she muttered, rather crossly, "tell me how you knew without me saying a word, before you even looked up. I expect you want to". He grinned slightly at her. He enjoyed it when she was pert.

"Obvious, I'm afraid. Shuffling gait, and I beat you to a greeting. You were about twenty percent slower turning the door handle too, but you drink gallons of coffee when you're just tired, and there was no smell of it. Besides, you've still got a slight scent of washing powder about you, so physically, you're fairly fresh. See? Painfully simple."

"Yes", answered Molly, deliberately laying on the disinterested tone, then feeling a slight smirk threatening to tweak her lips at his slightly disgruntled expression.

"You avoided the question, by the way", he stated, going back to the microscope.

She sighed, plonking herself down on a stool, chin in hand, elbow upon the bench, then heard him sit up again, and turned to him with a rueful smile.

"It's my 32nd birthday."

"Congratulations", he deadpanned, and she found herself smiling again despite herself. "That's better. You suit smiling a lot better than moping around the place like a wet dishcloth."

"Oh, do shut up, Sherlock. Point A, from what I hear, you have absolutely no idea what a dishcloth would look like, B, it's all your fault, and C, you don't look like a little ray of sunshine yourself today either."

The previously diminutive girl had become a lot braver around Sherlock since the Jim incident, and he rather liked the change. It was nice to have somebody other than John, Lestrade and (marginally, just about) Sally that he could tolerate, and he approved of her frankness. He responded in kind.

"'My fault' because I didn't acknowledge that you used to moon around the place in what I presume was a wet dishcloth fashion after me, then shucked up with a psychopath who used you to get to me, thereby severely limiting your ability to attain a stable relationship? And this accounts for your current wet rag status because you're reflecting on how you anticipated your life would pan out, and you'd hoped for a significant other who wasn't a cat by this time?"

"Ouch!" But she was laughing by now, acknowledging a hit, despite the rather tragic truth of it. "A little too correct".

He scooted back on his stool a little, long legs stretched out in front of him, hands in pockets. "Ludicrous, really. You are one of the few genuinely intelligent people I know, now that you've stopped stuttering uselessly whenever you see me. Your academic output is exemplary, and you're on course to be one of the youngest pathology consultants in Britain. A relationship would certainly curtail that side of things. Plus, you're attractive enough that you should be able to easily procure sex for yourself to meet your needs if you're suffering from that kind of lack.'' The slightly eerie silver eyes were twinkling slightly as he spoke, and he took Molly's returning sally with grace.

"Kettle, meet pot. You've been doing the wet dishcloth thing over John for months."

He sighed, and looked mildly surprised. "Is it that obvious?"

"Apparently to everyone but John. Why don't you just tell him? Worse he could do would be discover his homophobic streak, punch you on the nose, and never speak to you again."

"Actually, the worse he could do would be to be kind and pitying and try to carry on as normal... good grief, woman, how do you do it? You realise you've actually engaged a sociopath in a mundane discussion about feelings? No-one else can do that."

"Sociopath, what rubbish... Wait a minute, Sherlock - _procure _sex? I don't _procure_ thank you very much!"

"Whyever not?" Honestly, the man was hopeless. He sounded genuinely puzzled.

"Because it's degrading. I wouldn't expect an esoteric virgin like yourself to understand..." she stopped, as Sherlock had erupted into his sharp bark of a laugh. "What?"

"You know I don't eat on a case?"

"Yes."

"I still enjoy food when I have an appetite. Sometimes, I like take-away, sometimes a three course dinner, I have a discerning enough palate to give any food critic a run for their money, but I don't get emotionally attached to any of it."

She studied him with interest. This was a new development.

"Are you telling me you're a tart, Sherlock?"

"Oh, really, that's such a prurient way of looking at it, Molls. It's just a very enjoyable bodily function."

Molly was suddenly aware of a slight tension in the room. Or was tension the right word? Frisson might be more like it. More peculiarly, it wasn't bothering her. _I'm discussing sex with Sherlock Holmes, and I'm feeling calm and in control._

She grinned at him.

"I should have guessed Sherlock Holmes would just take what he wanted, when he wanted it. After all, you've never let inconvenient things like convention, or morality, to cramp your style before."

To her surprise, she saw a so-fleeting-as-to-be-almost-invisible look of hurt flash across his face. She doubted he was aware it was visible, but it stirred a slight guilty, protective feeling in her.

"Actually, I should say convention or good manners. I know you don't like to let on, but I think your morality's actually pretty sound." He looked quite ridiculously pleased, and Molly felt a moment's aching empathy; however detached he may chose to portray himself, the constant barbs of "freak" and "psychopath" must have worn him down over time. She knew that this had improved recently, that even Sergeant Donovan had a certain exasperated fondness for their impossible consultant, but some wounds took a long time to heal. Her retrospective was interrupted by the long, lanky form leaping to its feet suddenly, causing her to jump in a way quite reminiscent of her earlier interaction with him.

"So, no plans to do anything up until now?"

"No. Feeling far to sulky and Bridget Jones-ish to celebrate being another year closer to death."

"Rubbish. Come on, I'm bored. I'll take you to dinner at that new Indonesian place off Chancery Lane - the owner owes me a favour, and you can tell me about your gamma delta T-cell results."

"Pardon?"

"Don't do the gauche thing, or I'm withdrawing the offer. You know I would know about your research; I won't break confidentiality, you're clearly bored and fed up, I'm clearly bored and fed up, and we sort of get on. Has to be better than waiting for your cell lines to mature."

"I was rather looking forward to watching my cell lines mature. It's almost as exciting as watching paint dry. Anyway, aren't you busy?" She nodded at the microscope.

"Dull, and done."

"Don't you want to do something with John?"

She watched with interest as his face became marginally more expressionless.

"He's ill. Well, actually, he was. Rotaviral gastroenteritis. Revolting condition. He wanted a bit of peace and quiet."

"Ugh, poor thing. I had that in my GP block, it was awful. So, you're at a loose end?"

"Apparently."

"I'm not really dressed for a night out."

"Actually, you look rather nice. Just take the belt from the trousers and cinch it through the belt hooks on your top. And put some lipstick on. Your mouth looks small."

He tempered this with a wink, and Molly burst out laughing, rising to her feet, feeling much more cheerful.

"How could I resist such a chivalrous invitation?"

"Quite. Madam, may I escort you to dinner?"

He approached her, proffering his arm with a flourish, and she took it with a Jane Austen style curtsey.

"Sir is too kind."

He snorted. "Hardly. You can pay for the taxi."

-oOo-

_Well, the original Sherlock Holmes could be kind and charming when he chose to be, and women's roles have changed a bit since his day… or perhaps Sherlock wants to experiment on Molly…_

_If I say this fic _might_ go up a rating for later chapters, would anyone be interested? Especially if they're already written?_

_Anyway, please read and review! Thanks._


	2. Chapter 2: Putting His Mind To It

**Chapter 2**

**Putting His Mind To It.**

When Sherlock Holmes put his mind to it, he was excellent company. John Watson was unlikely to have stayed with him if he wasn't, being gregarious enough in his own way, and by no means the pushover some had at first assumed.

Tonight, he had put his mind to it. The conversation didn't so much flow as leap from topic to topic: had Molly not availed herself pretty freely of the Prosecco on offer, she would not have had the confidence to meet him leap for leap. As it was, with the bubbles bursting through her system, she sparkled alongside him. The food was good, tempting them to linger over each fragrant course, and she blithely accepted an expensive after-dinner Scotch when the second bottle of wine was drained.

Feeling tipsy, but by no means undignified, she got up from the table rather reluctantly. She had not had fun for a long time, and she felt like prolonging it. Funnily enough, the fact that it was Sherlock keeping her company didn't really seem to matter very much. She was still young, having a great night out with a friend, it was Friday night, she wasn't due back at work until Wednesday, and it was her birthday.

"Fancy going somewhere else?"

"Every bar around here is crammed with the braying masses, plays dreary manufactured music, is too loud to hear ourselves think, and probably serves inferior quality liquor."

"Mine for a nightcap, then? I have Bombay Sapphire and _I Speak Because I Can_, amongst other things."

"Much better. Have you got ice, limes and proper tonic?"

"Loads of ice. Tesco Slimline with lime."

"Ugh, definitely not. We'll stop off on the way home. I doubt we'll be able to get Fever Tree, but Schweppes is acceptable, and a fresh lime. What are you giggling at?"

"How can you be such an awful food snob when you often barely eat for days on end?"

He replied with dignity, grabbing her arm to whisk her along;

"As I said earlier, Molly, everything in it's place". His teeth flashed at her for a moment in a rather predatory fashion, and her stomach gave a little jolt as she remembered his revelation about his "appetites" earlier. Well, he was obviously eating today...

Molly's cat, Toby, was plainly sulking as they entered the kitchen, and Molly grinned to herself, thinking that she had almost named him "Sherlock" when she got him, then decided the tabby was a bit too cute and fluffy to suit the name. This was much more like it.

"Oh, come on, it's not like there isn't plenty of dried food in your bowl, and you can always go out and catch a mouse, you know."

Sherlock grinned as the cat turned its back on them.

"A creature after my own heart. I daresay once we start ignoring him back he'll come demanding attention?"

She giggled again. It was always a little disorientating when Sherlock revealed an ounce of self awareness.

As she fished the bag of ice out of the freezer and Sherlock sliced the limes, the cat nonchalantly got up and began entwining himself around Sherlock's legs, purring loudly.

"I see you're still in disgrace, Molly. Cat, you're a traitor and a manipulator". He scratched Toby with his stockinged toe, earning a distinct increase in the decibel level. He then looked up at Molly with a wicked gleam again. "Aren't you worried he'll eat you when you die old and alone?" She hit him with the tea towel.

They took their rather generous drinks, in the beautiful heavy cut glass tumblers Molly had inherited from her aunt, into the cosy sitting room, and both sat on the old leather sofa. Toby followed, and firmly ensconced himself on Sherlock's lap. The long fingers automatically began scratching the cat's back, and Molly's mouth felt suddenly dry, so she took a large swig of her gin and tonic.

This was nice. Relaxed. Very Un-Sherlock, but he seemed happy enough too. She sat with her knees curled under her, facing him, as she sipped at the cold, clear spirit in her frosted glass, whilst he sprawled against the arm with Toby on his lap. The conversation had somehow drifted onto methods of identifying poisoning in a corpse without the benefit of laboratory testing, which should have been disturbing, yet wasn't.

Toby's purring suddenly reached a crescendo as Sherlock found his favourite spot behind his ears, and he rose to his feet, arching his back.

Sherlock struggled to sit up. "Good god, cat, must you insert your back-end in my face? It's really not subtle."

Molly chucked. "He likes you. He's got no taste, though, he adored Jim.". She winced, and fell silent a moment, suddenly feeling as if she had burst the bubble of this lovely evening.

Sherlock was distracted, now disentangling Toby from his trousers.

"Ow. Watch it, these are expensive". He placed the cat on the floor, giving him a last long stroke along his spine with an air of finality, which Toby evidently acknowledged, as he padded out of the room. "You can do better, you know," continued Sherlock, conversationally, "than a deranged serial killer."

She burst out laughing, rather hysterically. Only Sherlock.

"Thanks. Thanks a lot."

"He was short, too. You'd have towered over him in heels."

Now they were both giggling helplessly.

It left them leaning in towards each other.

-oOo-

_More, anybody? For anyone following this story, next chapter will be M rated._


	3. Chapter 3: Kickstart and Full Charge

**Chapter 3**

**Kickstart and Full Charge**

The mutual lean became closer.

Molly wasn't sure who initiated the kiss, whether she snaked her hand into Sherlock's hair first, or whether it was him, fingers tangled in hers, thumb resting on her chin, just below her mouth.

At first, it was just a breath of air, two slightly parted lips softly brushing against each other. Then there was the tip of a tongue in the lightest of touches. Then it deepened, hot and wet and hungry, with tongues and teeth.

Molly found herself lying on the sofa, her legs wrapped around his sinuous body, hands both clutching at his hair, and moaning slightly into his mouth as with one hand he _scratched_ her earlobe whilst the other, warm fingers trailing, crept its way up over her abdomen. She shifted slightly, and felt a bolt of lust shoot straight from her stomach to her groin as the heat and firmness of an already impressive erection dug into her side.

They paused for a moment, looking into each other's eyes, grinning and panting. His face was flushed, lips were swollen and red, his pupils blown, and she was sure hers must look the same, along with the stubble burn she could feel.

"Shall we move this to the bedroom?" she gasped, and, in reply he lifted himself off her, pulling her to her feet, and continuing the rough, seeking kiss as he stumbled backwards in the direction of her room.

The door was slammed behind them, and she was whirled around until the back of her knees hit the bed. She fell onto it, dragging him with her.

He was tugging at the belt wrapped around her waist, flinging it to one side and pushing her top up over her head, growling impatiently, then dropping his head back down to run his teeth over the edges of the cups on her bra. He slipped a tongue underneath, so it just flicked her nipple, then nipped her softly again, causing her to jolt as if electrocuted.

Frantically, she began tugging at his shirt to untuck it from his trousers, pushing the jacket from his shoulders. He went to help her, then cursed.

"Damn! I've forgotten my wallet. Do you have anything?"

It took Molly a moment to realise what he meant, and then she realised no, she didn't have anything - she had thrown away the box of condoms she had bought when dating Jim in a bid to rid her flat of every reminder of him. But she wasn't about to admit that now; she was young, having fun, it was _ages_ since she'd had a good shag, she had a half naked Sherlock Holmes leaning over her in her bed, and such problems could be sorted out afterwards.

"I'm on the Pill", she lied, "and I got myself thoroughly tested since... Well, you know", which was true.

"Oh, good", he growled, ridding himself of his shirt and laying himself on top of her.

The kisses intensified again with the skin contact, and Molly could smell the electric tang of pheromones in the air. She squeezed his flanks with her thighs, running her nails over the surprisingly toned chest, mewling as he sucked at her collar bone, gasping as he undid her bra with one nimble flick, and suddenly desperate to get rid of all remaining clothes.

She struggled to sit up, grabbing at his belt as she managed it, then losing all coordination as he slipped her bra down her arms, bent his head, and took one breast in his mouth whist lifting the other cupped in his hand.

"Now these," he mumbled, the throaty vibrations hardening her nipples to sharp peaks "are really lovely". He ran the tip of his tongue around her areola, his thumb tracing the same course on the other side. "You should show them off more. 32 DD, yet still so pert. Could have had an alternative career off these, you know". As he punctuated this sordid yet so heady stream of compliments with gentle sucks, nips and kisses, alternating sides, blowing on the damp skin, she began to feel ready to explode. Then he was undoing her buttons, and she suddenly couldn't stop her hips from bucking embarrassingly towards him.

His hand slipped between her legs, first drawing his fingers against the damp fabric of her underwear, then sliding it to one side to dip his fingers into her.

"Oh god, you're so wet", he groaned, seemingly losing a little of his control. He started to run his fingers along the edge of her, firmly as he encircled her clitoris, then entering her oh-so-slightly as he stroked back down. She gave an incoherent cry, and started weakly struggling with her trousers again. This time he helped her, kicking free of his own too, and she licked her lips at the sight of him naked, his erection long, thick and inviting, blushed a dark red.

Meeting his eyes, she trailed the back of her fingers up his inner thigh, and, with little more preamble than that, continued until she was stroking the length of his cock. Beads of clear, viscous fluid were leaking from the tip already, and he grunted as she wrapped her hand around him, then cried out "_Nnng, YES, Molly!_" as she bent down and licked him clean with just the very tip of her tongue. His breath hissed through his teeth, and, emboldened, she took more of him into her mouth, sucking, flicking her tongue over his frenulum, reading his struggle not to thrust too violently in the tautness of his sinews.

Then he was pulling her clear of him with a popping sound and pushing her onto her back. He settled between her legs, lying coiled sinuously on his side, and he began with licking the backs of her knees. The real testament of how good he was was that she, scarcely inexperienced in these matters, had never really liked anyone doing this to her before - too ticklish - but with, him, it was heavenly, as the firm flat of his tongue massaged rather than tickled, and she felt herself starting to unravel.

Next, moved to her other leg, and then, with an almost perfect symmetry, he began working his way upwards. She could hardly hear her own incoherent gasping and babbling over the thunderous heartbeat in her ears, and her vision was spotted with dark blotches and flashing lights.

And then his mouth reached the top, and he was licking and softly sucking where earlier he had stroked, and her hands were in his hair, and oh god his fingers were sliding deep inside her, more than one, perhaps two or even three, stroking upwards as if beckoning, whilst his tongue darted and played, and she could feel the little hitches of his breath that marked him as truly aroused, and felt him lurch and lose his rhythm as her hand reached down to stroke him reciprocally, and it was the one of the sexiest things she'd ever known, and oh god oh god she was coming, coming so hard, a yell surprising her as she lifted her pelvis right off the bed.

And then he was looming above her, a satyr-like grin upon his face, as he wiped his debauched face, then leaned down to kiss her. She felt his tip nudge against her over-sensitised labia, and it twitched, as his breath hitched again, and he actually winced. That decided her; she grabbed his arse, and, in one fast smooth movement that she inwardly congratulated herself upon, impaled herself on him. He actually cried out, then his silver eyes filled with intensity, and he began to move.

It should have been pedestrian, this position; missionary and all that, but it was far from it. Sherlock's heavy weight was resting on her just enough to keep her lightheaded, and he curled an arm back to lift her hips slightly, then angled his thrusts... Oh!

It was really, _really_ good. Each thrust, he adjusted himself slightly, obviously reading the most minute cues even when so distracted. She wrapped her legs tightly around him, crossing her ankles, squeezing him both internally and externally as hard as she could, meeting him as he buried himself in her. Then, he had found the position that was _just right_, and he kept at it, each time he slammed home making her see stars. She could rarely orgasm by penetration alone; usually she had to touch herself too, but Sherlock's pubic bone took care of that need.

She could feel the white hot ball coiling up inside her stomach again, feel herself forgetting to breathe, and it was then she felt Sherlock beginning to lose his rhythm. She looked into his face and saw it beginning to contort with loss of control, and it was wonderful, and she was coming again, so powerfully, and so was he, with a great shout, his whole body tensing with the force of it.

He flopped down to one side of her, his skin glistening with sweat, his chest heaving, and he pulled her against him, fingers lazily stroking her back. This was a little unexpected, although very nice; she'd imagined him to be more of the roll-over type.

After a while, their breathing returned to normal, and he gave her a genuinely happy grin, then chuckled.

"Happy Birthday."

"Thanks. Best birthday treat I've had in ages".

"Felt pretty good this end too. I thought you'd be a bit if hellcat between the sheets, once you'd got over being a mouse in the laboratory."

She grinned in return.

"That was well up there in the top ten shags of all time, and the others were all in committed relationships after lots of practice. You really are quite unfairly talented."

"How would it be if I tried to fill up your league table a bit more tomorrow? Better than being bored."

"Definitely. Just so I know, I assume this is just a one-off? Well, several-times-off?" Surprisingly, she suddenly realised this was what she wanted. A magnificent romp in the hay, with no untidy complications, and the freedom to get on with her life afterwards.

"Probably for the best. Not a good idea to take it beyond that, when I'm married to my work and have an unhealthy preoccupation with my flatmate and you're in need of something more sensible. Think of this as a good kick start, Molls."

"For you or me?"

"You have half of the world's population to move on to. I just have the one person, and I think things would... stall."

She stayed quiet, rather doubting that. For herself, she did feel a glow of new found confidence, and realised, with a flash of gratitude to the undercover Casanova snuggled next to her, that she felt ready to stride out and meet somebody who wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Well, after tomorrow, obviously. She'd want her confidence batteries fully charged before embarking on such a mission, wouldn't she?

-oOo-

_I think I'll take a vote on this one. If you would rather I move the plot forward (and there is more plot, including some good old S/J H/C coming up), then I will. The chapter is written. Alternatively, if anyone wants Molly and Sherlock's next 24 hours dwelt on in similar detail to the last chapter, then I'm sure that could be managed! Let me know…._


	4. Chapter 4: Marking territory

**Chapter 4**

**Marking territory**

Molly woke up gradually and luxuriantly, somehow knowing there was a reason for her feeling of sensuous gratification even before she fully regained consciousness.

The memories of the previous night began drifting back to her with a delightful, dream-like quality, enhanced by the scent of Sherlock and sex that oozed from her bed sheets. They had had another, lovely, drowsy performance in the early hours of the morning, when she had half-woken to feel him lazily stroking her stomach, and lower, and she had parted her legs to give him more room. The room was dark and quiet, and it was so warm and comfortable with him pressed up behind her that her arousal was mixed with a wonderful sensation of near sleep that made everything incredibly relaxing, yet charged with hazy eroticism. His fingers had drifted, feather-light and aimless, over her skin, as he had slipped into her once again, and moved with sensuous slowness. Previously, she would have thought dozing during sex would be hugely insulting, yet now she euphorically drifted, and it was gorgeous. Finally, his hot breath in her ear as he began to speed up had stimulated her sufficiently to galvanise her into meeting his thrusts, and a few deft strokes of his clever fingers had brought her a long, rolling warm plateau of an orgasm that seamlessly blended with blissful sleep.

She waited until she was fully awake, reveling in her other senses, before she opened her eyes. She could hear Sherlock's steady breathing, feel the warmth from his skin, and of course, everything smelt sinfully delicious.

She blinked in the light of late morning seeping through the curtains, and turned her head to study her companion.

He lay on his front, his face turned towards her, slack and smooth from sleep. She grinned to see he had his mouth just the slightest bit open and he had drooled slightly. He looked amusingly normal when asleep; young, tousled and switched-off, his usually aura of manic energy dispelled. His hand lay, fingers lightly curled, close to his face, and the duvet sat around his waist, allowing Molly to sneakily memorise the planes of his back.

She lay there for a while, then stretched, quietly got out of bed, and padded to the bathroom. Refreshed and clean-of-tooth, she made her way down to the kitchen, and put on the kettle for coffee. She heard the cistern flush from upstairs - he was awake.

As she was stirring her tea and his coffee (black, two sugars, as she knew only too well), he shuffled into the kitchen, scrubbing at the back of his deviant hair. He had appropriated a pair of her baggy jogging bottoms; he managed to look frustratingly elegant, the grey fabric sitting low on his hips and finishing at mid-calf level, looking more like expensive gentleman's holiday-wear than bobbled round-the-house grot. The fact that he wore nothing else helped.

"Morning. D'you have food? I'm starving."

She quirked an eyebrow at him, amused by his airily unabashed demeanour, as if it was entirely normal for him to spend a good proportion of the night doing disgraceful things after a casual not-really-date. (Perhaps it was - she had certainly experienced a side to him she had not hitherto suspected).

"Coffee. I can make toast happen." _Good. Meeting him head to head on the cool and collected front._

"Dull", he announced imperiously, stalking across the kitchen towards her, and offhandedly kissing her; brief, but full on the lips. He tasted of toothpaste, which meant he had either used her toothbrush unasked, or rooted through her bathroom cabinets for a spare. _Cheek_, she thought, without rancour.

"What do you suggest?" she asked, hoping he wouldn't take it as innuendo, as she really was rather hungry herself.

"Emerald's, down the road from here. Great pastries. My treat."

"I thought you'd forgotten your wallet? Bit transparent of you."

"John's card is in my jacket pocket."

She knew both of them too well to remonstrate; choosing to look him up and down instead.

"Are you planning on going out like that? I mean, very nice and everything, but it's a little louche."

"Louche is a good word, but these slovenly trousers hardly merit the description. You really should have more self respect. Obviously, I'll need to shower and change. Come on, join me in the shower. Won't delay things too much, I should be able to bring you to orgasm within five minutes."

She giggled, but followed, making no comment beyond barking "Come, Molly!" in her best strident Sherlock tones, earning the throaty, dirty chuckle that never failed to plunge her mind gutter-wards.

She was glad she'd acquiesced, as he not only made good on his promise, kneeling on the floor of the bath while she gripped his hair with both hands, moaning and shuddering delightedly, but he revealed himself to be intrigued by the practicalities of female grooming. There was something rather decadently intimate about having someone else shave you, she thought.

"Quite satisfying, this", purred Sherlock, as he smoothed on shaving gel and ran the razor over her skin. "Delightfully smooth" - he verified this with his tongue. "Haven't done this for ages - normally I've cleared out by this stage of the proceedings. You're one of the privileged few who's decent enough looking to shag and not too stupid to talk to afterwards."

"Chauvinist pig", replied Molly, without heat, giggling as the dark head dipped down to test his workmanship on the inner surface of her knee.

"Rubbish. Wanting an uncomplicated liaison for purely physical gratification is by no means solely a male pr... Ooahhh."

Molly was precluded from replying to the peculiar termination to his sentence, as her mouth was otherwise occupied.

Twenty minutes later, an unusually thoroughly groomed pathologist and smug looking detective left the house to track down breakfast.

Sherlock remained relaxed and convivial, and again, chatting over light, flaky pastries and excellent coffee was remarkably easy.

When he finally ran a long, elegant finger around the last few crumbs on his plate, licking them off shamelessly, he leaned back in his chair, fingertips steepled, and fixed her with his hawk-like gaze.

"What's you stamina like at the ripe old age of thirty-two? From what I understand, women reach their sexual peak in their early thirties."

"That's right", intoned Molly, surprised to find herself still unphased.

"So if I were to suggest we have another round back at your place, would it be unwelcome?"

"Not necessarily. But are you sure you're up to it? Don't most men peak at eighteen?"

"I'm not most men", deadpanned her incorrigible consort - just as she mimicked exactly the same words, knowing she'd set the line up for him.

Giggling, she let them back into the house. Sherlock looked around appraisingly.

"That's a particularly plush hearth rug. Have you christened it yet?"

"Definitely not. Too expensive. I don't even let Toby on it."

"Don't be avaricious. Come here, I have an idea that both protects and utilises it."

Sherlock's idea turned out to be a rather mind-blowing position with her on top, which she mentally stored up for future use.

He really was insatiable once he'd got started. The hearth rug was closely followed by the kitchen table, and later, the window sill in the spare room. It all seemed slightly territorial, as if he was ensuring he had made his mark upon every room in the house.

Later still, they sat side by side upon the sofa, watching repeats of Cadfael, which he found tolerable, being willing to forgive more in a monk who had lived almost a thousand years ago than in a contemporary investigator. As the adverts rolled around, she brought him a cup of tea, and noticed he was looking a bit pensive, if not outright miserable.

"Having thoughts about John?" she asked, hoping to surprise him, knowing that in his somewhat twisted psyche, he would see this question as amusing rather than cruel.

"Always, but not specifically", he replied, with an approving quirk of his lips. "Actually, you've been the best diversion in ages. Thanks, it's been excellent. Great fun."

"So any reason for the sad face?"

"Much more mundane", he answered, and opened his mouth as if to say more, then clamped it shut, clapped a hand over it, looked alarmed, and suddenly ran from the room.

-oOo-

_ Whatever could have precipitated this violent dash from the room? Hope you enjoyed this vaguely PWP chapter. Some nice Sherlock and John hurt/comfort in the next, if you're interested! Please do read and review…_


	5. Chapter 5: Anticlimax

**Chapter 5**

**Anticlimax **

Well, her erotic interlude had certainly curtailed itself rather abruptly. As soon as Sherlock had fled the room, the sounds of retching echoed from the bathroom. Molly waited for it to stop before rather timidly knocking on the door, a glass of water in her hand. He took it with something approaching good grace, and cautiously sipped.

"John must have given me his lurgy", he complained, a mixture of indignation and self-pity on his face. The colour then drained from him again, and he was sick a second time. Molly winced, not sure if he would be more offended by her leaving or staying, and trying to convince herself it was the latter, as she had always loathed vomit.

"Easy, Sherlock, easy", she soothed, a token effort, stroking his hair for a moment at arm's length. Finally, he seemed to have finished, and she proffered the glass again. He swilled his mouth out, and leaned back against the bathroom wall with a groan.

"I'd really like to go home now. Don't you have a car? Not normally much point in London, but I'd appreciate a lift." He gave her a rather watery smile, then convinced her he really must be feeling ill by following his rudeness with; "Sorry to spoil the weekend."

She bundled him into her Citroen, insisting he carry her mop-bucket, and fervently hoping he wouldn't throw up on her rather nice seat covers.

She felt rather guilty for squawking at him "USE THE BUCKET!" at the next spasm, so managed a to force a fair display of sympathy immediately afterwards. He grimaced at her.

"I can see why you became a pathologist. Although, you're doing very well, despite your obvious revulsion. Is it just vomit, or all bodily fluids?"

Sheepishly, she replied "Pretty much the full house. Urine, I can cope with, but sputum's the wors... oh, GOD, sorry, sorry - _in the bucket!_ Sorry, it's just..."

He spared a moment to glower at her.

The drive back to Baker Street was rather fraught, Molly's shoulders tense, Sherlock hunched over the bucket radiating hard-done-by misery. Strange to think that this was the unattainable creature she'd mooned over for so long. Thankfully, he managed to contain himself for the rest of the journey.

As they pulled up outside Speedy's sandwich shop, Sherlock dragged himself out of the passenger seat, and Molly couldn't quite contain her sigh of relief. He heard it, of course, and shot her an injured look. He poured the contents of the bucket down the drain, where the heavy drizzle quickly washed it away, then handed the horrible item back to her with a faintly malicious air. As his black front door closed behind him, she leapt from the car and stuffed the offending receptacle in the boot. She wasn't sharing her return journey with it. God, give her dead bodies any day.

As she let herself back into her flat, carrying the horrid bucket, she immediately noticed the scent of debauchery. Washing the bucket out with Dettol, she started to giggle at the ludicrous nature of her life. Talk about contrast.

Quite literally an anticlimax.

-oOo-

_Trying very hard to defeat a terrible case of writer's block! Two new chapters for you – feel free to click on. Reviews will help me get over my dreadful falling off the planet habit…._


	6. Chapter 6: Misery Loves Company

**Chapter 6**

**Misery Loves Company**

"I think this may well be the worst thing that ever happened to me," groaned Sherlock, gulping in air in awkward bursts, and attempting to control the violent shuddering.

"I really am sorry," soothed John Watson, his bedside manner mingled with genuine contrition. "I know it's awful, but you have to be past the worst now."

"You seem to be talking to a child, John. Where are they? I don't see them in the room." He followed this question with what would have been a sarcastically overemphasised look around him, but his depleted strength robbed the gesture of its energy.

John rolled his eyes in response to his flat-mate's pettish utterance, and continued patiently.

"Are you done for a mo? Shall I take the bowl out?"

Sherlock clutched the washing up bowl protectively to his chest, and spat a few times, the stringy saliva refusing to separate. John silently passed him a wet flannel, and he wiped his mouth, collapsing back onto his pillows with a moan, and relinquishing his bowl. Eyes deliberately averted, John removed the unsavoury item, and could be heard tipping the contents into the toilet and rinsing it for the next inevitable bout.

It seemed so unfair. Sherlock, in his often precarious role as Britain's first consulting detective, considered himself to have an iron constitution. He had plunged into a morass of unhealthy situations, often exposing his peerless immune system to a variety of pathogens, and had experienced life at its most colourful. Rummaging through skips, plunging into dirty water, going undercover in drug dens, or that time on that rat-infested Dutch cargo ship - all survived with never a second thought.

Yet it seemed this exotic and opportunistic exposure had not prepared him for life with a general practitioner from a perfectly normal practice, who dealt regularly with children, and the unexciting Rotavirus outbreak; the British GP's herald of Spring. John's immunity acquired during paediatric and A&E jobs may have waned sufficiently to allow him to contract the bug, however, after a mildly unsettled few hours, he was recovered.

When Sherlock arrived back from his latest absence, John assumed he was only being typically tight lipped, before he made a bolt for, and almost made it to, the bathroom. Ah. Literally tight lipped, then.

John had confidently reassured his flatmate that this was only a childish gastroenteritis bug that mainly affected babies and toddlers, and that adults could expect to shake off as easily as he had done. However, this particular adult seemed to be the exception that proved the rule. The detective never could bring himself to do anything in anything other than spectacular fashion, although this particular example would appear to repudiate his claims of relative infallibility.

He had now violently vomited at least once every fifteen minutes for the past eight hours, each bout accompanied by paroxysms of retching where he appeared to be trying to cough up his own colon.

Initially, John had allowed Sherlock to display a traditional male British stiff upper lip, doing no more than bringing a pint of water through to the bathroom, and not inflicting the humiliation of a witness upon him. However, after the first two hours, when the detective began to droop exhausted across the toilet bowl, leaving a red line across his sharp cheekbones from resting upon the porcelain, the doctor helped him to bed, and found his ministrations, although probably resented, were not rejected.

Now he returned to Sherlock's room, together with clean bowl and damp flannel. His friend lay with his eyes closed, and a look of abject misery etched onto his face. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. Unthinkingly, he began to mop Sherlock's face with the cool cloth, then froze as he realised what he was doing, and waited for the eruption of indignation. He began to feel slightly alarmed when it didn't come, and the patient whimpered slightly and turned his face into the cool, muttering;

"…thanks…'s'nice."

"Here, Sherlock. Just a few mouthfuls of this stuff."

He helped Sherlock to sit up take a few gulps of the rehydration drink – his friend's hands were so shaky he could scarcely hold the glass – then eased him back down again.

For perhaps ten minutes, Sherlock dozed, and John flicked idly through his copy of the BMJ, feeling virtuous to have removed it from its plastic covering this month. Then, Sherlock's eyes shot open, and he was sitting up again, clutching frantically at the bowl as another round of paroxysms wracked his thin body. This bout went on for so long that he was unable to properly draw breath, and the moans escaping him began to sound frightened. At this point, John's natural sympathy overruled his diffidence. He held the quaking frame, rubbing Sherlock's back, and wiping his hair out of his eyes with the flannel.

"Easy, Sherlock, it's OK, you're OK now. OK, breath now, bring it up, don't worry, you'll be OK."

_I feel awful about this_. John was also starting to feel seriously uneasy. His own stomach seemed to cramp in sympathy at the detective's convulsant efforts to heave and breath at the same time, and a miserable guilt, that he knew to be irrational, gnawed at him. Next moment, he had cause to feel worse. Removing the barriers of diffidence he and Sherlock usually maintained between them seemed to disinhibit his friend also, as, coming towards the end of this latest bout of torment, Sherlock began to cry; nothing noisy or dramatic, just grizzling faintly.

"Ohh. Hurts. Plea' make i' sto'."

Quietly, John drew Sherlock in, so the dark head rested upon his shoulder.

"Alright. Alright. It'll be over soon, promise."

This time, when he encouraged a few sips of Dioralyte, Sherlock gagged and showed signs of becoming tearful again. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken.

"What are you like with needles, Sherlock?" John phrased the question carefully, in view of what he suspected of Sherlock's history.

"Fine. 'Kay. Don' care. Cn y' give m 'ything t' stop this? 'Ny anti-sickness stuff?"

"Won't help, I'm afraid. I've got a couple of bags of dextrosaline though, and I nicked an IV kit from work. I'll nab some of your KCl as well. Resting your stomach and rehydration should help. But don't tell anyone. I don't want a fitness to practice hearing, and I 'spect you should be in hospital, though I'm sure you won't go."

"Too righ'. Leas' cn be in m' own room."

John quietly fetched the kit, milking the fluid through the giving set and clamping the line. He hung it on a coat hanger on the wardrobe door, then slipped a tourniquet around Sherlock's wrist and flicked the vein on the back of his hand.

"Sharp scratch".

Sherlock watched dispassionately as with ease of long practice, John slid the cannula home, secured it with plasters, removed the needle, and attached the bag of fluids.

"You've done that b'fore." His voice was half-way to regaining his habitual impeccable vowels and crisp consonants, although there was a soft, slack quality to his voice that make him sound smoothly languorous.

"Once or twice."

"'Sno' really a sharp scratch, y' know."

"I know."

"More 'f a stabbing, pushing sensation."

"I know. I let students practice on me now and then."

"How kinky. Letting y'self be penetrated by all those nubile young men."

"They're mostly girls these days."

"How dull for you." It was the character of the almost-smile that tugged at John. He's actually trying to be brave about this. He could only honour it by matching Sherlock's tone.

"You're supposed to be ill. Shut up."

"Firs' my flatmate disables me, then penetrates me, and now's abusing me - 'm calling Childline."

"They'll probably have me arrested, and you'll have to go to hospital to find someone to look after you. There'll be an old lady in the next bed shouting 'nurse, nurse', and then trying to get in bed with you."

"Alright, I'll be'yave. Can y' wipe my hair again?"

Smiling, John complied with the request, which sounded weak, but as autocratic as an order to send a text on his behalf, settling himself on the bed as he did so, legs stretched comfortably in front of him. Sherlock wriggled to rest his forehead against his thigh. The long black eyelashes drifted shut again.

_Finally, I think he's asleep. Properly. Probably should stop stroking his hair now_. However, John didn't. His fingers carried on absently carding through the dark curls even as Sherlock's breathing deepened and slowed, then gave a little hitch, as the detective snuggled closer and gave a little sigh, before slurring out four words.

"I love you, John."

Every muscle in John wanted to freeze, but the soldier in him that always responded to danger kicked in, and there was not the slightest change of rhythm of the stroking hand. He was sure Sherlock was asleep. Mostly sure… Mostly asleep... the important thing was not to react…. his breathing was stilling again now… that was OK then…

Sherlock jack-knifed upright.

And threw up over John's feet.

-oOo-

_Oops, Sherlock… not sure that's how you planned on telling John your secret! Where do we go from here?_


End file.
